#thegames

"We gonna listen to that thing the whole fucking time?"

"It motivates me."

"To what, have an aneurysm?"

The crack of a slap shot rang out like a bullet from a gun, followed immediately by the hard thud of vulcanized rubber hitting leather at 80 miles an hour.

"Are you throwing softballs?"

Lincoln eyed the goalie skeptically.  "Why am I even shooting from the line? You should be working on close up stuff. The teams you're going to be playing will be focusing on dekes, tips, and wrists more than they will slap shots.  You need to work on reading the body."

"Pussy."

Another crack filled the area, another hollow thud as the puck was stopped mid-flight.

"That's more like it."

Lincoln scowled.  As irritating as she could be, there was no denying his friend's talent.  The problem was that Lexa would be the first one to the point that out, and it made the goaltender hard to bear, and on rare occasions, pretty tough to like.

The radio crackled to life again, the static fragmenting the voices as they droned on.

"Oh, come on!  Remember Enroth?  He was five foot eleven, and the fans up in Buffalo didn't seem to mind him."

"Enroth? Enroth!?  Mike, if you're going to use someone as an example at least pick someone who still plays in the NHL.  The last time I checked Enroth was sent packing to a KHL team in Belarus or some such place.  Meanwhile, Halak and Khudobin, the only goalies in the league I can think of that are under six feet tall, haven't started more than half the games in a season."

"Keith, I played with Gerry Cheevers, who is arguably one of the greatest goaltenders in history.  He had to have been no taller than five foot eleven, and a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet.  Now, Woods is only one inch and five pounds smaller than that.  You cannot tell me that she can't compete at a professional level."

"Ok Mike, thousands of years ago, when you played, it wasn't uncommon to see a guy five foot ten or five foot eleven between the pipes.  And for the record, I'm not arguing that she can't play.  She's good. I've seen her play. I know she's good. She might even be better than good. My point is there's just no reason to take her in an era of giant goaltenders.  Right now, the average goalie in the NHL is six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds.  And that's just the average.  Ben Bishop is six foot seven, two hundred and sixteen pounds.  Why on earth would you bother taking this girl when there are guys like that out there? Does she have the chops for the NHL? Sure. Fine. But, why sign a small, average quality NHL prospect, when you've got guys playing at the same level who can also fill up the net like they're the Rock of Gibraltar?"

"Well, either way, her selection to the Canadian national team should make this Olympics an interesting one."

"One thing is for sure.  If this girl wants a shot at being selected to a professional team, there had better be a shiny, gold medal hanging around her neck at the end of the games.  I doubt any NHL team is going to sustain interest if she can't bring home gold when she's just playing against other women."

“Can we please turn that crap off,” Lincoln pleaded with her, his arms dangling at his sides as he kicked a puck into position for another shot."

“I don’t want to.” Lexa adjusting her footing as she waited for him to snap the puck.

“Dante's gonna be pissed when he hears you've been binge-listening to this crap again.”

“He won't,” she crouched low in the net, superstitious that the mere mention of the surly, wizened goalie coach might summon him to appear before her.

“It's gonna get into your head.”

“It won't,” she crouching lower still, dismissing the momentary sting of guilt at her dishonesty.

“Whatever you say.”

Lincoln wound back, his body twisting forward violently as he slapped the puck in her direction, full force.

Most people would have believed Lexa when she told them that the detractors and skeptics didn’t get to her, but not Lincoln. He had known her too intimately for far too long.  Lincoln knew when Lexa was lying to herself. When they were children, it had been easier to recognize, easier to see the hurt hidden behind the brave face. Now though, the cracks around the edges were almost imperceptible, and when the naysaying was at its worst, Lexa only doubled down on her cocksure bravado.  It was an act that had become so calculated, so much a part of her, that he doubted she could tell the difference between the facade and the emotional truth behind it.

On the rare occasions that Lexa's emotions did break the surface, they always came out convoluted, manifesting themselves as anger and aggression rather than hurt and disappointment.  There were times when Lincoln wanted to do more, say more to help her, but his oldest friend lived in abject fear of losing her competitive edge. Frustratingly, Lexa believed that it was her fury, rather than her natural talent alone, that continued to propel her forward. Lincoln knew that his words would fall on deaf ears.

“So you want me to bring it in close?”

“Nope.”

Lincoln sighed, kicking at a puck.

“Lex, the teams at the Olympics...”

“I'm not training to play the teams at the Olympics, Lincoln."

"Lexa..."

They're women, Lincoln!  I've been playing in the damn OHL for three years now.  Men's professional hockey is my reality.  The Olympic games are a distraction at best, and when they're over, I need to be playing at a level that's going to get me drafted out of here. Training for the women's game isn't going to help me with that."

"And training like you're about to play Zdeno Chara is going to lose you the gold!"

Lincoln sent a puck flying towards the stands in frustration. It barely missed the glass, making a terrible rattling sound as it shook the board.

"Lexa, just listen to me for once! You're minimizing how good these players are."

The hulking former defenseman skated over to his friend, pulling off his helmet and discarding it gently on ice as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"You're not wrong.  The women's game is different, but different doesn't mean worse, it doesn't mean unskilled.  These women play a different style of hockey, and all of them are extremely good at it.  Some of them are unbelievably good at it.  More importantly, because you've spent your entire career playing in all-male leagues, their style of hockey isn't one you've played before.  If you underestimate how hard it's going to be for you to adjust to that, you do so at your own peril."

Lexa sighed, pulling her goalie mask off. “I swear Lincoln; coaching women has gotten you soft.”

She winked, smirking at her already exacerbated friend. After a two year stint in the NHL, a catastrophic injury had realigned Lincoln's stars, setting him on a new path as the assistant coach of a collegiate women's team in Wisconsin.  His transition from rising playboy all-star to a champion of Title IX and female athletes was a sensitive matter, though he remained a good sport when it came to teasing.  She expected him to roll his eyes, groan, or perhaps playfully punch her in the arm.  Instead, he made Lexa jump as he threw his stick onto the ice, furious.

“Lexa! Can you just drop your fucking attitude for once?”

He skated away from her, his hands resting behind his head as he took a moment to cool off.

"You know… I get it. I grew up with you. I was there when you and those other girls petitioned to play in the boy’s league.  I saw how you were the only one left standing after years of harassment and abuse.  I've been with you every step of the way, so I understand how you ended up with the mindset you have, but you've got to get over this toxic masculinity shit! Somewhere, deep down inside of you, you still believe that you've gotten this far in spite of being a woman.  That belief is wrong, Lexa.  That thinking is your Achille's heel."

He turned back to her, rubbing his temples to soothe the headache form an afternoon of clenching his jaw.

"Those girls don't think that way.  I know you believe that if they were as good as you, they'd be playing in the men's leagues too, but you're wrong.  They didn't grow up where we did; they didn't have to walk that path.  They grew up playing in women's leagues, where nobody ever told them they weren't good enough.  They're not playing to prove anything to anyone."

He eyed her knowingly, an unspoken truth passing between them."

"If you shove it in their face that you think you're better than them because you play with men, they're going to use that attitude to humiliate you."

Lexa's face was red, her eyes fixed and furious.  She threw her goalie stick in Lincoln's general direction and tossed her glove and blocker down in disgust.

“I didn't even want to compete with these women! Playing for the stupid Olympic team was your idea; you and Dante!  I don't understand why the hell I'm supposed to learn some whole new style of play for something that's going to last all of three weeks!"

"Because it's a damn honor!"

Lincoln and Lexa both froze as the gravelly voice of Dante Wallace rumbled at them from across the ice.

"And would either of you care to tell me what you're doing here on a day that I specifically told you to take off?"

For a second, Lexa just watched her coach approaching, frozen in shock as though she were an eight-year-old who'd just been caught goofing off in practice. She was accustomed to her coach's frequent irritability, but this was a different mood altogether. The old salt was raging, his anger fueled by the audacity of his protege's defiance. Dante was the kind of man who refused to take insubordination lightly, and as he stomped towards them, fisherman's cap pulled low on his brow, unlit cigarette gripped between his gritted teeth, unshaven jaw clenched, Lexa knew she was about to catch hell.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!"

"Dante, I..."

Dante held up his hand, pointing directly at Lincoln as he continued to stare Lexa down.

"Don't you even start!"

He thrust his index finger in Lexa's direction.

"You want to practice? Fine, let's practice.  Suicides, go!"

Lexa remained frozen for a moment, trying in vain to process an excuse.

"Now!" He pointed at Lincoln.  "You too, blockhead!"  

The pair finally sprung into action, dashing off towards the closest line and hustling back towards the goal.

Dante watched his unfortunate trainees sprint towards center ice, already panting.  He muttered, pulling up the zipper on the ancient Red Wings Starter jacket he was never without.  He stood there, letting a full five minutes pass until the suffering athletes had begun to turn red and pour sweat before he launched into his lecture.

"You're a damn fool, Woods! Only a fool would underestimate their opponent to service their individual, selfish pride."

He chewed on the end of the unlit cigarette, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other.

"You've been granted the privilege of representing your country because you're the best it has to offer, a paragon of true Olympic prowess, and like a jackass, you choose to squander that opportunity. Why? Because you don't like the stipulations?!"

He spat his cigarette out on the ice, finally blowing the whistle around his neck to give the go-ahead for Lexa and Lincoln to stop.  The two dropped to the ice, gasping for breath.

"Woods, you're one of the best goalies I've ever coached, you might even be the best. Right now, however, you could fit the number of people that believe that into a pee-wee locker room. This season is the last one you'll be eligible to play Major Junior, and if you're betting on those NHL scouts suddenly coming to their senses, you've got another thing coming."

Dante walked over to where the players were slumped over on the ice, still trying to catch their breaths.  He crouched directly in front of Lexa's face, staring her dead in the eye.

"Kid, you've spent the last three years playing for the worst team in Northern Ontario.  Nobody gives a rat's ass how good you are if they don't see you play.  You're invisible up here, and as long as you're invisible, the NHL can ignore you all they like.   Play net at the Olympics and you get to show the whole world what you can do.  Nobody will be able to ignore you after that.  That's why I insisted you play for the women's national team."

Dante stood, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants, and popping another cigarette into his mouth.

"Now get off my ice and go clean yourselves up.”  He paused looking over the pathetic, exhausted skaters with disdain.  "You two look like a damn soup sandwich."

With that, he trudged off, the scent of bay rum and stale Camel Straights lingering in his wake.

Next Chapter ->